Elements of Conflict
by Rachel Indeed
Summary: Keep an eye on Quirrell, won't you?" Snape is put to the test, in more ways than one, during Harry's first year at Hogwarts.
1. Man Faces Nature

**Man Faces Nature**

_Dark magic is unnatural, unleashed through emotion and primal power. Defense is natural, defined by sacrifice and control. In the wide catalogue of defensive spells there are many kinds of magical shields, but the most powerful is the most personal – shielding with your body invokes the deepest magic. _

Introduction to _Confronting the Faceless_, Chapter Three: Personal Defense in Theory and Practice

* * *

Quirrell's attack begins with the element of earth. Wandless and primal, his spell distorts the rigid strength of wood and soil, unbalancing the broom beneath Potter's hands. Its timber warps and bucks under the child, who quickly loses his seat. The broom's plunging handle swings back and forth in mid-air as the boy clings to it, his legs pin-wheeling uselessly beneath him.

Snape, sitting in the stands below, is taken by surprise – so much so that he doubts for a moment that Quirrell is behind this. Up to now, the stuttering fool has limited himself to crude stunts and diversions. It takes neither genius nor power to open the door to a rampaging troll, but it takes both to manipulate one of the essential elements. Only Dark magic of the most advanced kind can forge a weapon out of nature. Quirrell's hitherto unsuspected skill elevates his meddling to a new and disturbing level, but Snape has little chance to dwell on it. He fixes his eyes on Potter and braces his mind and body for defense.

Severus wraps his hands around the creaky wooden plank beneath him and whispers the counter-curse of elemental earth, feeling filaments of his magic blossom like ivy through his fingers, twining from his seat to the floor, down through the risers and out through the railings, branching all the way down to the stadium foundations. The immense, grounding power of earth and timber rises up into his palms, and he weighs Potter's quaking broomstick down with it. His incantation binds the broom to him like a ship to anchor, and he feels its erratic flailing in the flutter of his pulse. But it begins to calm almost at once, crushed under the dense magic he is absorbing through his hands.

_Take that, you amateur_, he thinks, and then all hell breaks loose.

Quirrell attacks with a second element, without loosening his hold on the first. This is unprecedented; it is insane. Without a wand, the only way to harness an element is to use your body as a temporary channel, and mixing warring elements within the body is spectacularly dangerous. But Severus can sense the moron doing it, reaching into the air with a burst of rage and stirring a whirlwind into motion around the boy, who is still dangling by one arm a hundred feet up. And instead of spontaneously combusting, as he should, Quirrell sits placidly in the stands with earth and air running through him, their fundamental opposition reduced to a meaningless trifle.

Severus realizes, in shock, that he's out of his league.

But he has to do something; the child is losing his hold in the screaming wind. He clenches his hands more tightly against his seat, forcing himself to remain painfully aware of wood and solid ground as he switches his incantation from elemental earth to elemental air. He has never done this before. The words bring an immediate rush of power, lightning and wild. It boils against the settled earth inside him, and the opposing forces react like magnets under his ribcage, pressing outward millimeter by millimeter, shifting his bones. He has the horrible sensation that his heart is being slowly shoved out of his chest. Tremendous power is coursing through him, but in order to wield that strength in defense, he must find some new way to offer his body as a shield.

He concentrates on the pull of his lungs, slowing his breathing and establishing a steady rhythm that rises and falls in tandem with his chanting. The painful pressure in his chest is distracting; one of his ribs begins to fracture. He gasps, upsetting his careful pacing, but has no time to refine his technique. He reaches out into the squall surrounding Potter and tries to regulate the storm with his own breaths; his counter-curse magnifies the calm air that is moving through him. It multiplies and mixes with the wild gusts; he feels them swirl in the back of his throat, and nearly gags. He forces his throat open and concentrates on inhaling and exhaling: once, twice, and again, and again. His eyes, still fixed and unblinking, begin to water as he feels new cracks spider along his ribcage, but he can see his spell start to take effect as Potter shakes himself free of the gale and tries to throw one leg back over his broom. He is not successful yet, but the tide is turning.

In utter disbelief, Severus recognizes a third assault gathering at the edge of his senses. A blast of hot air, as scalding as a furnace, begins to rise, and the element of fire adds itself to the day's impossibilities. But before he can even begin to formulate a response, it dissipates as suddenly as it appeared. At the same moment, the challenge of earth and air fade into nothing, the Dark spell breaks off – Quirrell abandons the field. Severus, confused and suspicious, releases his hold on air and earth but throws a furious litany of anti-inflammatory charms at the boy. He discovers he has misdirected them when he smells smoke thirty seconds later.

His concentration broken, he grabs for his wand and shoots a stream of water at the blue flames eating their way up his robes (_that makes all four_, he thinks angrily, thoroughly sick of primal elements). By the time he looks up, Potter has landed on solid ground and is busily hacking up the Snitch to universal applause.

The pain in his chest stabs quite intolerably.


	2. Man Faces Man

Disclaimer: Sorry, I forgot to add this at the beginning of the story. I am not JK Rowling - all these characters belong to her, as does the plot of "The Sorcerer's Stone."

**Man Faces Man**

Snape is sitting in Dumbledore's office, hands resting self-consciously at his sides, pretending not to be injured. He has already taken twenty-five points from Gryffindor for each cracked rib – they added up quickly – though judging from the raucous shouts in the corridors, no one has noticed yet. Dumbledore has listened gravely to his report, and now they stare at each other, poker-faced.

Too drained to play the game with his usual stubbornness, Snape sighs and asks, "What are we going to do now?"

"Do?" Dumbledore echoes.

"He just tried to kill the boy in front of half the school. Clearly we need to develop more effective deterrents."

"We're both doing our best, as is Harry. We've proved more than a match for Quirinus so far."

Snape stands, grimacing. "He nearly overmatched me a half hour ago! And I promise you, Potter wasn't about to sprout wings – he'd have died, prophecy or no. As for 'doing our best' against Quirrell, I refuse to believe that disapproval in absentia is the best defense you have to offer!"

As usual, Dumbledore is utterly unfazed by both anger and sarcasm, but his steady gaze holds a glimmer of concern, and does not waver until Snape sinks back into his seat with a nearly inaudible grunt. When he answers, his tone is neutral. "The best defense I have to offer is _you_. Think carefully before you try to convince me that it's not enough."

Snape glares at him. "Don't think I don't see what you're doing. I'm on trial as much as the boy."

"I only said that your protection is the most powerful I can offer him. Why do you always take offense at my compliments?"

"For the same reason I always decline your lemon drops: you offer them where they are not desired, you use them to put off the business at hand, and they have a distinctly artificial flavor. If you wish to pay me a compliment, tell me what's happened to Quirrell. He's not the same book-bound fool who's been fumbling over toasters for the last four years, that much is certain. And a year of travel isn't nearly enough to explain his newfound…expertise."

"An excellent point." Dumbledore meets Snape's gaze seriously. "I believe that, in his year abroad, he fell into the service of Lord Voldemort, and is now under his tutelage."

There is a long pause. "You believe the Dark Lord is in a position to give personal instruction to members of your faculty, and you _didn't think this worth mentioning_ until now?"

Dumbledore waves that away. "Until now, I've only had unsubstantiated suspicions – your description of Quirrell's attack is the first strong evidence I've heard. It sounds as though he has gained advanced knowledge, but lacks the innate power and experience necessary to fully realize the potential of his spells." Dumbledore leans forward. "You did astoundingly well in your improvised defense, Severus, but your success at repulsing him was probably due to the fact that he was as inexperienced at channeling that level of power as you were."

Snape raises an eyebrow. "Nice to see you've abandoned flattery."

"I merely point out that, had someone as practiced and powerful as Voldemort – or myself, for that matter – conducted the attack at full strength, the same spells might well have been chosen, but you would not have been able to counter them."

"You needn't remind me of my place, Headmaster. How could I forget it, when my time this year has been so fully occupied in jumping through your hoops?"

Snape does not miss the glint of warning behind Dumbledore's spectacles, and visibly struggles to dampen down his temper. "The material point," the Headmaster continues, "is that Quirrell, though he is being fed sophisticated Dark spells, has only his own limited power to put behind them. For now."

"But how is Quirrell able to communicate with the Dark Lord at all? In the years since his fall, none among his followers or foes have heard so much as a whisper."

"Oh, I have heard whispers. And I have made my plans accordingly."

"What plans?"

"At the moment, my plan is for you to keep Quirrell away from young Mister Potter and the Stone."

Snape's lips go white at the same moment his forehead shades purple. "Foolproof as that scheme doubtless is," he hisses, "might it not make more sense to, say, _throw Quirrell in Azkaban_? Why wait until he receives instructions for some more spectacular method of homicide?"

"We have no evidence he has committed any crime, Severus."

"He just tried to kill a student in front of a few hundred people!"

"We have only your word for that."

"Ah, yes," Snape drawls softly. "I was forgetting that my word is not to be trusted."

"Not by the Wizengamot, I'm afraid. If you try to testify about what happened this afternoon, Quirrell will surely accuse _you_ of trying to kill Harry, and claim _he_ was the one casting protective counter-curses. Witnesses, if there are any, will only be able to confirm that both of you were reciting incantations. The case will then become a question of motive and character…"

"At which point you'll throw your weight behind me…"

"…at which point I'm afraid that my previous sworn testimony will be quoted to the effect that you 'were indeed a Death Eater' when Quirinus Quirrell was attending his first classes on Improving Muggle-Wizard relations."

Snape stares at him stonily.

"I can't change these things, Severus," Dumbledore says unapologetically. "Appearances are against you and always have been, that is a great part of your value, but in some situations it works against us. I can't force people to believe that you speak the truth."

"My oaths are meaningless in more than one quarter, it seems," Snape answers, narrowing his eyes. "All these problems could have been avoided had you chosen a more _reputable_ character" – his words drip venom – "to 'keep an eye on Quirrell' this year. I doubt any jury would question Minerva if she brought evidence against him, and I know none would question you. But you gave the task to me instead, because testing my commitment to the boy was more important to you than constructing a case against the criminal."

"Well, in fairness, you are much more important than the criminal, in the long run." Dumbledore has exchanged his usual lilt for the cool, detached tones of a strategist – it's disconcerting.

Snape's eyes glitter dangerously. "I can be trusted with Potter," he says in his quietest voice. "You ought to know that."

"It has been ten years since we spoke of…all this," Dumbledore answers. "Your feelings have changed in the interim, that's only natural…"

"They haven't."

"…but I can't pretend I'm not concerned to see the way you hate this child. If you can't overcome that, it's best to know early."

Snape has gone deathly still; his lips barely move when he speaks. "I don't need to overcome it."

"Severus…"

"My feelings have not changed. No more my loyalties."

"I begin to see that," Dumbledore sighs. "It is not, in fact, entirely reassuring."

Snape sits stiffly in his chair with fury in his eyes; his words, though, are cold and carefully measured. "Potter needs protection inside the castle – we can't afford to let Quirrell get close to him in any kind of crowd; he attacks when he has sufficient cover and apparent anonymity. His next attempt will most likely come in the corridors, the Great Hall, or the Quidditch field."

Dumbledore sends a serious, probing look in Snape's direction. Then, like a sudden sunburst, he smiles. "See that it doesn't."

Snape flushes an ugly red. "That's all you have to say?"

"Quite," Dumbledore nods crisply. "Oh, and make it very clear to Quirinus that his 'apparent anonymity' is at an end as far as you're concerned. Confront him personally and often."

"Headmaster…" Snape growls.

"That will be all, thank you, Severus. Please do get yourself to the hospital wing without further delay." Dumbledore pauses, then reaches for the small glass jar on his desktop. "Unless you want to change your mind, and take a lemon drop before you go?"

* * *

_Harry didn't know whether he was imagining it or not, but he seemed to keep running into Snape wherever he went. At times, he even wondered whether Snape was following him… _

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, hardback edition, page 221

* * *


	3. Man Faces Himself

**Man Faces Himself**

On the last day of the school year, as afternoon begins to slope toward twilight, Snape sits in his office with a clean glass and an old bottle, and tastes his failure.

Its tastes familiar, and why not? It's been forced down his throat since childhood. He always fails. Might as well drink, might as well swallow. Fire will fill his throat and churn his stomach whether he lifts the glass or no. Some things never change.

A week ago, he'd stood over the brat's hospital bed. The child lay quiet, hands limp across his chest, eyes closed, all blood gone from his face. He hadn't stirred since Dumbledore had rescued him from the gruesome death he'd been courting all year – the gruesome death he had fought through every layer of protection to seize as his personal prize. The gruesome death he had faced without Snape's knowledge. He had survived by sheer, dumb luck, but he had yet to wake. Unconscious in the infirmary, pale and still, the boy had looked like his mother for the first time.

He'd looked like his dead mother, and Snape is never going to forgive him.

The bottle on Snape's desk is still half full when Dumbledore glides in without knocking. Snape does not get up, but nods in a gesture of vague civility. Dumbledore beams at him, conjures a glass, and fills it from Snape's bottle with a few generous sloshes. He raises it and offers a toast. "To a job well done."

He drinks with alarming enthusiasm. Snape does nothing.

Dumbledore eyes him carefully and, after a moment, sets down his glass and shifts to lean part of his weight against the desk. "You don't share my celebratory mood, I take it?"

Snape barely stirs. His voice is low. "All year you watched me run myself ragged trying to guard Potter on my own. I didn't rate a kind word until I failed."

"Is that what's troubling you?"

Snape frowns. "Nothing is troubling me."

"You didn't fail."

"Allowing Potter to end up in an isolated room with the Stone in his pocket and the Dark Lord at his throat does not constitute success by my standards." Snape's sneer is no less ugly for being directed at himself.

Dumbledore straightens with the air of a man who is running short on patience. "You are the Head of Slytherin House – results are your standards," he says firmly. "Harry is alive, Voldemort has vanished, Quirrell is dead, the Stone with all its potential for harm will soon be destroyed, and every single one of your students will be hundreds of miles away for the next three months. From your perspective, that constitutes nearly ultimate success."

Snape snorts, and the corner of Dumbledore's mouth twists down in an odd gesture of approval. He runs one hand gently along the edge of the desk, and his voice grows quieter. "I saved him when you weren't there, just as you saved him in my absence." He waits to make sure his words are getting through. "I know that all this year you've considered yourself on trial, and I won't deny that the strength of your conviction is now clearer to me than it was last September. But I hope that a few uncertainties have been lightened for you, also. Or do you still believe that we will fail him…as we failed her?"

Snape's hand goes white against his glass. He stares into it for a long time. "No," he finally answers. "He's going to live."

Dumbledore bends a little closer. "You trust my orders to protect him, even the ones you don't fully understand?"

Snape looks up at him. "Is that what you're trying to do? Teach _me _to trust _you_?" He frowns in mild confusion. "I've always followed your orders."

"I know – but last time, my orders weren't enough." Dumbledore's mouth is set, his eyes determined. "This time, it's going to be different."


End file.
